


The End

by DoubleBit



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Gen, Glib talk of mental illness, Homophobic Language, M/M, References to Depression, Sexist Language, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, trans!pickles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 06:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15261030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleBit/pseuds/DoubleBit
Summary: In April of 1994, Pickles arrives unexpectedly at Tony Thunderbottom's front door.





	The End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PaxVobis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/gifts).



> I don't know why I wrote this. It's for Pax, whose amazing stories and characterizations keep inspiring me, even after I've sworn that I'm finished.
> 
> For some reason, my italics won't show up. Apologies for the confusion this may cause.

For Tony, the strangest years are the ones in between – after the dissolution of the band, and before he flees to Modesto. (Anywhere to escape the ravening absence that stalks him through Los Angeles, sinking its teeth in at the slightest provocation: A purple taxi cab turning left onto Sunset. A busker wearing black Chucks with the soles worn through. The smell of fresh lo mein.) It’s during this time that he lives alone in his 4,000-square-foot home in Laurel Canyon, and his well-meaning hangers-on assure Tony that this is merely a reset, the beginning of the next phase of his musical career, but Tony knows that there are dependencies from which you recover, and those which you only survive. (And of course there’s the ones that kill you.)

“Sometimes, people grow apart,” Pickles had said that winter in a late-show interview. He gave a tense shrug and pushed a pair of silver-chrome aviators up the bridge of his nose. “Sometimes, one person grows up, ya know, and the other person can’t, or _won’t,_ and so you just like, don’t have nothin’ left to say to them.”

(“You shouldn’t watch that shit,” Snazz admonished. “Like we haven’t both had enough of that guy to last a fuckin’ lifetime.”)

By April of 1994, Tony and Pickles haven’t seen one another in months – longer since they’ve been alone without an attorney present. Yet when Tony’s doorbell rings on a dewy Friday morning, he knows with an irrational certainty that it’s Pickles on the other side. And Tony’s wasted _hours_ imagining this moment, even gone so far as to scribble down a few phrases that he wants to hold onto in the unlikely event that Pickles ever shows up again on the front steps of the home that had once been – for all intents and purposes – _theirs._ For almost a year, Tony’s been hoping for this chance – to call Pickles an asshole to his face, or maybe just act indifferent towards him – though he’s well aware that he’ll probably blow it and beg Pickles to fuck the money and fuck the lawyers and please just come _back._ But as he reaches for the door, the only thing Tony feels is a wave of nausea, because he’s been listening to the radio all morning and he _knows_ what’s brought Pickles here. The epithets will have to wait.

“ _Tony…_ ”

And just like that, Pickles hurls himself into Tony’s arms, fists knotted in the cotton of Tony’s t-shirt like the past nine months was only a bad dream from which he’s just woken. Tony falters, terrified by his own weakness. His brain floods with the familiar smell of body odor, cheap whiskey and hair conditioner.

“Aw Jesus, Tone – I’m so _fuckin’_ glad you’re here!” Pickles’ voice cracks and shakes, half-muffled against Tony’s chest. “Jen called me this morning to tell me about – tell me what happened. Told me not to, like, don’t turn on the fuckin’ news. So I turned on the fuckin’ news, fuckin’ MTV, and like – holy _shit._ That fucking kid. That _stupid fucking kid._ ” Pickles’ drool seeps through Tony’s shirt as he carries on: “I just _sat_ there, and like, couldn’t get it out of my brain. And I’ve been tryin’, dude. I’ve been fucking _tryin’._ But it’s nothing _new,_ ya know – they just keep showing these same clips of where it happened. Like his place or whatever. Fuckin’ – they said he was there for two _days _til someone found him. Like, just _alone_ up there for two fuckin’ days –”__

__Pickles breaks into a series of convulsive sobs, and Tony finally permits himself to return the embrace. Resting his chin atop Pickles’ head, he looks out over the yard, grateful to find that they are truly – impossibly – unobserved. Near the driveway, the line of coral trees has begun to bloom, their shapes swollen with red flowers. Dimly, Tony excoriates himself for enjoying the moment._ _

__“Dude.” Pickles finally pulls away and looks up at Tony with red-rimmed eyes. “Dude, I – I _know_ it’s fucked up for me to just show up here, but – I was goin’ fuckin’ _crazy_ just sitting in front of the TV, an’ I just needed to _go_ someplace, an’ I… I didn’t know where else to _go._ ”_ _

__It seems unlikely that Pickles has forgotten saying these same words the first time he knocked on the door of Tony’s shitty apartment in Westlake, black-eyed and limping, holding two cartons of take-out and a weak half-smile on his lips._ _

___“Hey, man – is that offer still open?”_ _ _

__Tony blinks at him. Lately – for some reason – Pickles has chosen to start dressing like a regular jack-off – a plain white tee under an oversized flannel, a pair of loose-fitting off-the-rack jeans that would’ve given his sixteen-year-old self conniptions. He wears his hair straight now, still long, but underneath a backwards baseball cap, and prefers a pair of ridiculous custom sneakers to his red vintage cowboy boots. Tony resents all of this intensely, as though all the leather and the hairspray and the bangles had been some sort of _disguise_ that Pickles has simply cast off without a second thought. It makes Tony feel like a fool – so dazzled that he was the only one genuinely surprised when Pickles told the band after the fact that Tommy was “done. I had Dave draw up the papers last week.”_ _

__But even without his veneer of glitter, Pickles is still the most beautiful thing in California, so Tony really has no choice but to ask, “Do you wanna like, come in?”_ _

__Pickles nods and gives one of those lop-sided little smiles that he does whenever he gets his way. He kicks off his shoes in the foyer, then treads down the hall in stocking feet with a tentative gait that suggests a trespassing child._ _

__“He’s such a fucking _asshole._ ” Pickles stops briefly as he enters the living-room. “Whydja still have the piano?” he asks._ _

__“Haven’t found a buyer yet,” Tony says, which is true in the sense that he isn’t planning on selling it. (He will, in 2002. The piano on which Pickles wrote “The Mercy of Los Angeles” will sell at auction for $410,000 to some nutjob collector in Malaysia.)_ _

__Pickles extends a finger and gives a gentle plunk on the high B-flat, and Tony flinches as the note reverberates through the stillness of the house._ _

__“Didja see that faggy acoustic special they did last Christmas? Fuckin’ flowers an’ candles an’ shit – looked like a goddamn funeral. He’s always been such a fucking tragic little _bitch._ ” He flops onto the sofa, lies there on his back with one leg hanging over the arm, the other flung off to the side. “And now he’s gonna be a fucking _legend._ Fucking bullshit martyr. Well, not to _me,_ man. To me he’s always gonna be just a stupid fucking _cunt._ ” _ _

__Tony fights back a smile, even as Pickles swipes at a stray tear._ _

__“What’s so special about _this?_ ” he’d asked, in the summer of 1989 when Pickles came home with a new record under his arm._ _

__Pickles gaped at him, eyes bugging out as he turned up the volume, like maybe Tony was going deaf and just couldn’t _hear_ the thing properly. “Dude – are you _shitting_ me? It’s so fucking _sludgy._ Listen to that fucking _scream._ Like, I’d of _killed_ for something like this when I was fifteen.”_ _

__Neither of them imagined that in two years, that same band – with its incomprehensible vocals and fuzzy, nothing guitar solos – would dominate the airwaves, even as the world anxiously awaited the latest release from an outsize and increasingly splintered Snakes n’ Barrels. When Pickles let the needle drop onto the opening riff of their second record – the one with the naked baby on the cover – Tony swore he could see the hair stand up on Pickles’ arms._ _

__“I’ve dreamed this,” Pickles said, with sudden, unnerving sincerity. “Like walking into a house you’ve been in before, except like, you don’t remember _when._ Oh _fuck,_ dude. I wish I’d never come to LA” Belatedly, he added: “I don’t mean – like, I don’t mean I wish I never met _you,_ but like... I should’ve made this. I could’ve made this if I’d never come to LA.”_ _

__He listened to the album seven times through that night, swinging between self-loathing panic and semi-violent ecstasy until he finally passed out on the coffee table and Tony dared to turn off the record player and return the vinyl to its sleeve._ _

__In the afternoon, Tony woke to the sound of those same goddamn power-chords. He shuffled into the living room to find Pickles upright on the sofa with his head back, eyes closed, looking like he might still be asleep, if not for the lit cigarette hanging delicately between two fingers._ _

__“I’m gonna call Dave an’ tell him I want ‘em to open for us,” Pickles announced._ _

__Tony rolled his eyes. At the time, this seemed like just another entry on the growing list of decisions that Pickles took it upon himself to make, but in retrospect, Tony pinpoints this moment as the start of what he would complainingly describe to Snazz as “a fucking total _obsession_ ” – equal parts adoration and resentment, reminiscent of the worst kind of high school crush. He’d never seen Pickles fixate on _anyone_ the way he fixated on that fucking kid – called him a junkie and a faggot and a whore, lines between which only Tony could read._ _

__In a hotel room in Copenhagen, Tony came out of the shower to find Pickles lying on his stomach on the bed, poring over the latest issue of Rolling Stone – “New Faces of Rock – 1992.”_ _

__“ _Look_ at this fuckin’ douchebag,” Pickles said, sucking the side of his cheek as he held up the cover for Tony’s consideration. “Looks like a fuckin’ Skid Row twink who stole a fuckin’ piss-stained sweater off a homeless grandpa. And look at this fuckin’ _t-shirt._ ” Here Pickles jabbed at the magazine with a freshly painted fingernail. “Oh, yeah, you must really _hate_ being famous, sweetheart.”_ _

__Tony rubbed a towel through his hair, then wrapped it around his waist and took a seat on the comforter beside Pickles. “Did he say anything about you?” he asked, stomach knotted in anticipation of another night spent offering up a litany of assurances: _Oh come on, dude – you don’t really give a fuck what he thinks. You don’t give a fuck what **anybody** thinks, remember? You write songs that people fucking **love.** Who cares about that dumb fucking kid?__ _

__“Not yet.”_ _

__Tony’s eyes landed on Pickles’ silver lamé briefs, then drifted up the line of his backbone, and a memory appeared, as vivid as an acid flashback:_ _

___Where do you live?_ _ _

___He gives a shrug, and a long, gold earring in the shape of a star brushes a bare, freckled shoulder._ _ _

___Ya know. Wherever._ _ _

__Tony kicked at the pile of discarded clothes by the nightstand – animal prints and metallics, still damp with sweat. He cleared his throat. “Hey, dude – Tommy’s got some girls in his room. I was thinkin’ about headin’ over there.”_ _

__“Yeah yeah, I’m right behind ya,” Pickles replied without looking up. “Just let me finish this article.”_ _

__That fall, Pickles dragged him to a show at the Palace, and Tony balked at the cover charge._ _

__“I can’t believe you’re gonna _pay_ to see a show in LA Like, pull a couple bills outta – where? Do you even _own_ a wallet? And get your fuckin’ hand stamped like some regular asshole.”_ _

__“It’s $15,” Pickles said. “You’re sure _bitchin’_ about it like some regular asshole.”_ _

__It felt strange to disappear into a crowd – but familiar, comfortable, even – like slipping into a past life. Snazz would’ve said that there was no such thing as past lives – only infinite, concurrent lives. As he followed Pickles’ slight frame into the darkness of the theater, Tony imagined an alternate unfolding of events – a timeline in which Pickles came to Los Angeles, and the two of them lived together in Westlake, working shitty jobs during the day, writing songs at night, and playing $5 shows on the Strip on the weekends._ _

___I need to use your shower,_ Pickles would’ve said – he _did_ say, once upon a time. And Tony would stand there dumbfounded while the kid stripped down to his briefs, then folded his arms across his binding and said, _What, ya never seen tits before? Get fuckin’ dressed, er we’re gonna be **late.**__ _

__And they’d’ve scrounged up $30 between them – crumpled up bills left over from gigging or busking, from tip-outs and hustling – and they’d’ve taken the Red Line from Macarthur Park to this very same show on this very same night. And when it was over they’d return home and get high and fall asleep and would that have really been so fucking awful?_ _

__The set they came to see was only an hour, and Pickles never took his eyes off the fucking kid – never even noticed the looks and the gestures as here and there people in the crowd recognized the two of them. Or maybe he just didn’t give a fuck, dancing – somehow – to this utterly undanceable garbage._ _

__“I never realized he was so _small,_ ” Pickles leaned in to shout. “I bet you anything he wears those big ugly sweaters to cover up how fucking small he is.” He grinned up at Tony excitedly, and Tony felt a hideous and primal envy twist inside him._ _

___He’s nothing,_ Tony wanted to say._ _

__In the cab that night, Pickles announced that he was going to learn to play the drums – “And not like, some Ringo Starr bullshit. I mean like I’m gonna be fucking _great._ ” When they arrived at Tony’s place, Pickles grabbed him by the hand and pulled him across the lawn, into the darkness beneath the jacaranda tree and kissed him with such heat that Tony forgot to ask him why. Later, he’ll hold this memory up in a new light, to wonder if Pickles was already plotting the lines of his escape, even then, with their mouths pressed together, Pickles hands pawing at Tony’s belt._ _

__“You mind if I smoke?”_ _

__Pickles sits up, reaches for the half-spent bowl on Tony’s coffee table, and Tony motions assent._ _

__“Tom told me you’ve been filling in on drums while they’re sorting stuff out with Dave.”_ _

__Pickles exhales, coughs and waves the smoke out of his eyes. “Jen says I need to keep workin’ – she said that it’s not –” He pauses to flick the lighter nervously. “You know, this whole thing with SnB isn’t like, the end of the fucking _world_ or anything. She says I need to get out of the house.”_ _

__“Tom said he recorded you once playing 600 beats a minute.”_ _

__Pickles blushes and grins, the way he used to when Tony would catch him working on something new. “Yeah. And then I couldn’t walk right for two days. I been – I been goin’ to some metal shows, like, downtown mostly. A couple weeks ago I met this guy –” He looks away, remembering something before batting it out of his mind. “Weird fucker. Like, real fuckin’ head-case, but whatever. Anyway, dude’s visiting from Tampa, says they’ve got like, a kickass scene down there.”_ _

__“You’re thinking of moving to fucking _Florida?_ ” Tony asks, the strain all too clear in his voice, because that’s not how it _works,_ that’s not the deal you _make_ when you move to Angeltown._ _

__But Pickles raises an eyebrow and kind of laughs and says, “Fuck no, dude. Fuck that. Like, what, I’m gonna leave LA for some fucking _swamp?_ ” He shakes his head. “Might go check it out sometime is all.”_ _

__A moment passes between them, Pickles clears his throat and sets his ballcap on the table. “Hey, can I have a drink?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Tony says. “Sure. What do you want? I got, uh – water. And whiskey. And probably like – well, whatever. What do you want?”_ _

__“Maybe like, a paloma?”_ _

__Tony stares at him. “Yeah right, dude. I’ve got some Patron and I think a Fanta in the fridge.”_ _

__“That works.”_ _

__“You want ice?”_ _

__“Always.”_ _

__When he returns to the living room, he finds Pickles standing over the turntable, holding the sleeve of the album with the winged mannequin on the cover. “How come you own this?” he asks, turning it over to read the track listing. “You can’t stand this shit.”_ _

__“Sometimes I try to listen to things.” Tony cocks his head to one side, points a finger at his ear. “You know, like – try to hear them the way you do.”_ _

__“And?”_ _

__Tony shrugs and offers him his drink, pressing the wet glass against Pickles’ bare arm. “I mean, I can’t fuckin’ stand that shit. Except, you know, there’s a couple good soft ones on there.”_ _

__“Typical. Just go straight for the pussy shit.” Pickles smiles and reaches for the glass, and without all the bracelets, there’s nothing but a single leather bracelet to hide the set of faded scars._ _

__“What’s up with these?” Tony asked the first time he noticed._ _

__“Just a shitty idea I had,” Pickles told him, running a thumb along the underside of his wrist._ _

__“So,” Tony says. “I guess this means you can’t kill yourself.”_ _

__Pickles snorts. He flips the cue switch, and the tonearm levitates towards the first track. “Well, I can’t do it _now,_ can I? Just some copy-cat poseur crap.” He tucks a few strands of hair behind one ear, then takes a sip of his drink. He hums as he swallows. “My doctor says I should be medicated. Like, _on medication._ What a fuckin’ joke, right?”_ _

__“Medication for what?”_ _

__Tony watches Pickles watch the record as it spins, slender fingers tapping in time to the verse of the song, something about being bored and old. “You know the really shitty part? The worst part of it? is that now there’s no more music. Like, he’s made all the music he’s ever gonna make. Never gonna play another note. And yeah, somebody’ll probably release a bunch of demos, maybe some live shit or whatever. And people will tear his fuckin’ life apart, looking for fuckin’ scraps, trying to find some bullshit reason _why,_ but none of it will ever feel _new_ the way this did. Like, congratulations, kid –” He points two fingers to his temple, “you’re fuckin’ history.”_ _

__When Pickles glances up again, his green eyes brim with tears and this time Tony doesn’t think before wrapping him in a hug. He feels something cold run down his back._ _

__“Dude, you’re spilling your drink on me.”_ _

__“Shit,” Pickles says, not pulling away as he reaches to set the glass beside the record player._ _

__Tony holds him tightly. The first time he’d done this, he felt guilty – and lucky – when Pickles arched an eyebrow at him and said, “Jeez dude – it’s a split lip, not fuckin’ _cancer,_ ” but didn’t pull away, just let Tony’s hand stay on the curve of his hip, though he hated being touched there. He remembers how Pickles seemed to take up the whole apartment – the contents of his black duffel bag exploded over the floor, a trail of empties from the front door to the bedroom, the sound of a guitar at all hours of the night, a new riff worked through endlessly, a melody sung with gibberish words._ _

__Pickles seems so small now, in this house – rooms on rooms, in which to avoid anything, or just about. Tony’s so lost in thought that it isn’t til he feels Pickles’ lips on his neck that he registers the words, “Let me stay here tonight?”_ _

__It’s only because they’re not eye-to-eye that Tony manages to spit out, “Dude, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”_ _

__Pickles pulls away from him, and wipes at his bottom eyelid with his middle fingers – a strange, vestigial gesture now that he’s stopped wearing eyeliner. If he were to say, “Please, Tone?” well then at least Tony could say he’d tried, but Pickles has never had to ask Tony twice for anything, so instead he folds his arms across his chest and says scornfully, “What a shitty moment for you to grow some self-control all of a sudden.”_ _

__Tony shakes his head. “I can’t fucking believe you sometimes, dude.” Pickles stares at him, incredulous. There’s still time to relent, still that little voice insisting beyond all reason that this whole thing is somehow salvageable, but in what might be the last moment of true resolve in Tony Thunderbottom’s footnote of a life, he forges ahead: “Like, I can’t believe your fucking _nerve._ The kid was _right,_ man – you really do think the whole world owes you something, huh? Shit, it’s like he knew you better than _I_ did. Kindred fuckin’ spirits. You know, I _know_ you’re upset. Like, I know this –” He motions toward his own eyes to indicate tears. “Is real, or as real as anything ever is with you. I know it hurts, because I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you _cry_ before. And I fuckin’ hate it. I hate that you came here like this.” _ _

__Tony pauses, then says more softly, “You know, I saw him last week. Fuckin’ – sat right next to him on a flight into LA. And you know what we talked about? Fuckin’ Los Angeles, Seattle. Going home and shit. He told me he hadn’t slept in almost forty hours, told me he was gonna go home and sleep in his own bed, and he hoped it would rain hard while he slept. He didn’t say shit about you, or the band, or anything. It was just like, the kind of conversation you’d have with any regular jack-off. And now he’s fuckin’ dead. Five days ago, he had fuckin’ greasy hair and circles under his eyes, but he was a handsome guy, you know. Like you. And then he blew his fucking head off._ _

__And yeah, that’s like, _sad_ or whatever. It feels weird that I saw him and now he’s dead. But it’s basically the same fucking feeling as when someone you thought you knew turns out to be basically a fucking stranger, and instead of being dead, they just don’t return your phone calls and won’t talk to you without a lawyer, but then they show up on your doorstep and expect you to give a big fucking shit that some fucking kid that neither of us knows blew his fucking brains out.”_ _

__In the years to come, Tony will _almost_ manage to convince himself that this moment signified the end, and that in the end he was more than just a witness, but an acting force, and his mind will dutifully imbue the memory with brightness and clarity – the flush in Pickles’ cheeks and the shimmer in his eyes as he snarled, “Fuck you. Fuck you, you fuckin’ _asshole._ ” In truth, the end was earlier – the seed of it sewn into some time and place that Tony cannot pinpoint, no matter how often he tries, until the search for it becomes obsessive, agonizing, and he hears it in every note of every song that Pickles ever wrote, until he locks his collection of Snakes n’ Barrels recordings in a moldy storage unit near Echo Park. So he remembers it as the sound of the door slamming. The smell of marijuana and coral blossoms. The condensation sliding off a half-empty glass of Fanta-and-Patron. The warm crackle of the record as he lets it play through, the music filling the space of his home._ _


End file.
